


You, Me and my Oral Fixation

by persnickett



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, I'm so sorry, M/M, Silly, basically newt gone off like a dog in heat over the way thomas swallows tequila for 4k, where's the tag for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 10:55:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20329981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/pseuds/persnickett
Summary: Newt has never simultaneously wanted to kiss a person and to kill them so desperately much in his entire life.Which is saying a hell of a lot considering the person in question.





	You, Me and my Oral Fixation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tasteofdreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasteofdreams/gifts).

> So this is very definitely something. I'm not quite sure what, but. I wrote most of it on my phone on a long car ride and various commutes, purely to paste it into a chat and make a dear friend laugh… and then somehow it became. Well, this. 
> 
> It's silly af and 'mature' all at once (check the rating, as always, it's not smut but Newt's mind just might be a dirty place). It's absolutely a result of [THIS](https://twitter.com/onlyush/status/1153070444632793091) happening about a month ago, and it is most definitely the fault of, and lovingly dedicated to, tasteofdreams who inspired, unwisely encouraged, and generally otherwise midwifed this, whatever it is, into being. 
> 
> I hope she enjoys it! (the parts of it she hasn't already been subjected to over discord)

Minho is many things. He’s annoyingly both brilliantly athletic and cuttingly intelligent, and as such, wildly successful at both his occupations interning at one of the top law firms in the city and self-employed as a Personal Trainer for local upscale housewives. He is an endlessly entertaining and staunchly loyal friend, and while it is of the utmost importance that no human being ever let it slip to the man himself, his hair and the effort the puts into its care, maintenance and overall exhibition, is actually quite impressive. 

But Minho will very soon also be, if he doesn’t rein in his bullshit at least the most infinitesimal bit within approximately the next four, and say, three-quarter minutes, A Dead Man. 

Because Minho does this thing, you see. He gets a sick and profoundly troubling joy out of a certain little longstanding game of his. The aim of said game being the simple and ill-disguised glee he seems to be able to take from Newt’s abject torment. 

A game which Newt has come to refer to privately as _Things That Can Go in Thomas’ Mouth_. 

It was one thing when it was popcorn on film night or the odd Skittle or M&M on longish car trips. Quickly devolving from ‘Bro. Catch’ to ‘Hey. Bet you can’t...’ to where they are now. Which is where anything and everything that might conceivably cause Thomas’ eyes to light elatedly with challenge, his head to tip back, exposing the long pillar of pure and unadulterated sensory overload that is his throat, or the tip of his tongue to come questingly out into public, does so without delay or consideration. 

Pending nothing more than a significant look between the pair of idiots, and Minho wiggling whatever potentially-orally-acceptable item he has run across invitingly in the air in front of Thomas’ face. 

Seriously, that’s all it takes.

So. Newt’s not saying it was Minho’s _plan_ finding a bar that put out bowls of peanuts to bounce off those perfect pink lips and the edges of the sharp-looking, even white teeth that made up the brightest smile scientifically known to Man, over and over until one finally and inevitably finds its mark. The whole performance of course ending in a celebration of some apparent perceived accomplishment. Involving a lot of high-fiving and bright-white-grinning shoulder-clapping, and culminating inevitably in Thomas leaning boozily into Newt and breathing warm and humid in his ear that _it’s okay, he knows Newt is secretly suuuuuper impressed, he can tell_. 

Which Newt can handle. Thomas’ propensity for marking any occasion – from passing their Chemistry final, to a flying leap off a playground swing at the very top of its arc, to any number of points won or goals scored against him in baseball (it’s rounders), soccer (football), basketball (even Newt isn’t going to argue that it’s actually netball) or even Mario Kart, to successfully finding him what, yes, even Newt himself had to admit was in fact the most perfect birthday gift – with hugging or overly cuddly rufflings of his hair, or, classically, nuzzling inappropriately into Newt’s personal space to drawl a low, self assured _you l o v e me _ hasn’t posed an actual problem since grade school. 

BUT. The thing about the Things in Thomas’ Mouth game these days – the days since Minho started to avoid Newt’s gaze a little too deliberately while he enacted his favourite new form of torture, and then sit casting him smug, assessing, decidedly dangerous looks afterward – is that it never stops at peanuts.

No. It always, absolutely _always_ escalates.

Which means it’s probably not coincidence that they’ve come back here three weekends running now, and that they always somehow seem to end up ordering bottle service. And one thing Newt can swear for sure, is that if he has to watch Minho pouring tequila into Thomas’ mouth, if he has to avert his gaze from the way those lips curl to catch the clear, capricious stream of liquid in a way that could only be described as ‘skillful’ one more time... 

If he’s to be expected to manage the way Tommy will double forward with laughter, swiping his thumb across his assailingly perfect cupid’s-bow of a mouth too late to stop the trickle that inevitably, likely maliciously, escapes to slip out of the corner, or messily over his chin and down the side of his throat. Always somehow finding that long channel running alongside the column of his windpipe that would fit the curve of somebody’s mouth like it was made for them, Newt is sure – if it were the right person of course. 

If he’s to witness the tragedy of the drops of perfectly good liquor going to waste when Newt could just lean forward, just inches, and catch them with his tongue if it wouldn’t be basically the end of the world…

If it weren’t _Thomas_. 

Helpless then, to do anything but watch them, sliding no doubt ticklishly down, and down and _down_. Leaving the wet little stain at the collar of his shirt that will, most irritatingly, draw his eye for the next half an hour at the least to the place where the notch at the base of his throat plays peek-a-boo with the edge of the fabric.

(And when, by the way, did he start wearing V-necks? Newt is halfway certain Minho is also to blame for it in some way, and it is just like him to deliberately leave it to Newt to be the one who will have to inform him how ever so slightly – just the right amount, really – gay it is, when Thomas can’t figure out why the bartender keeps pouring him doubles he didn’t order, and the sly-looking guy working coat check is the only possible answer to the riddle of who slipped that number into his jean jacket pocket last week.) 

Well, next week maybe Newt will just stay in. At least at home he has ample privacy to take care of the dull, sultry heat taking life in his veins and the nagging, almost-itch between his shoulder blades at his leisure. Not to mention an entire internet full of enough porn to put images that are distinctly Not His Lifelong Best Mate in behind his eyelids as they slide indulgently closed.

(Even if most of his collection does seem to feature tastefully-muscled athletic brunets, with a sweet, slightly-submissive bent... and occasionally the sparse, all-over dotting of intriguing little brown moles.)

Christ. It’s some sort of kismet or godsend or colossal cosmic joke that they’re in a bar right now, because a good stiff drink is definitely both the exact and last thing Newt needs. 

***

No. Absolutely not. There is absolutely no way Newt is signing on for another entire evening of this twatwaddery. The oral-fixation twins can find somewhere else to hang out tonight or they can go back to Tavern Tequila-Torture on their own.

Honestly. It’s the fourth Friday-bloody-night in a row now, and Newt sighs deeply, having sent Minho a text to more or less that exact effect in reply to his announcement of the time and location of tonight’s revelry, with accompanying declaration that he and Tommy would stop by on their way there to pick him up.

Newt, for his part, has barely finished tossing his phone down, scraping a desperate, sanity-seeking hand through his hair, and more or less successfully ignoring the resulting onslaught of incoming replies.

**_Minho_** _8:10pm_

_But the bartender there is hot and into me._

_And bottle service is my new MO. I’m in law now, you can’t expect me to go back to living like a peasant._

_ **Minho** _ _8:11pm_

_You always say that and you always have fun once we get there._

**_Tommy_** _8:12pm_

_We’re outside. Sorry._

The notification for the last one comes buzzing in to light up his screen a literal split second before Minho is rapping his customarily exuberant shave-and-a-haircut sharply against the door to the flat.

Newt groans and drags himself up off of the sofa to the door.

He can barely even find it in himself to be surprised anymore when Hurricane Minho blows past him into the flat, only to make a direct beeline for the bowl of ammunition – also known as grapes – sitting on the kitchen counter. Newt would probably catalogue his reaction as more of a weary, internal tearing sensation right around the region of his very mortal soul, as he feels his own eyes vilely and egregiously betray him by turning instinctively in Tommy’s direction. Who, by the way, is barely through the door and already lighting up and dimpling much too fucking adorably as Minho fingers a grape suggestively and their eyes meet.

Newt crosses over to the counter and removes the bowl from Minho’s radius with a pointed look. Just as Tommy starts leaning forward on his toes, if not quite bouncing just yet, and generally showing signs of the exact sort of anticipatory idiocy Newt would really prefer at this early a point in the night to avoid.

  
But then, he notices for the first time, Tommy is also showing signs of…

Well to put it frankly, _Minho_.

It’s not something Newt can immediately put his finger on, but the bloody, shucking V-neck is very notably present and once again accounted for and—

“Skinny jeans??” Newt rescues the bowl Minho is currently sliding back toward himself across the counter and moves past him toward the fridge. “What, are we just dressing him in _your_ clothes now?”

Over by the door, Tommy’s shoulders slump and his head ducks, the better to survey himself and his current raiment with an air of dismay. “Told you!”

“I told you you’d get noticed.” Minho pops a grape Newt isn’t quite sure how he managed to appropriate decadently into his mouth. “And you are.”

Newt turns to open the fridge, confident in the knowledge that the people closest to him in the world know him well enough not to need to see his emphatic eye-roll in order to know that it’s most definitely there.

“Minho’s been trying t—"

When Newt turns back from safely containing the threat of the sanity-endangering grapes, it’s to catch Minho shutting Tommy’s stumbling explanation off with an abortive cutting gesture across his throat.

Thomas puts up a hand to scratch uncomfortably at the back of his neck, and the way it makes the clinging fabric of his (Minho’s) shirt shift in all the perfectly right, utterly wrong, totally unhelpful places is just a glaring confirmation of what Newt has been trying to say all evening.

“Whatever you two are up to, you can leave me well out of it.”

Minho straightens alertly up where he’s been draping himself all over Newt’s countertop and he exchanges a look with Thomas, whose eyes have taken on a sudden, doe-wide expression that almost borders on panic. Thomas opens his mouth to speak again, but Newt holds up a hand before either of them can argue.

“I’ve had a long couple of… weeks actually,” he admits truthfully, gaze carefully avoiding any incriminating landings anywhere near the way Thomas has started chewing anxiously on his lower lip. “And I’m honestly fine here. Really. The two of you can kindly let me alone to wallow contentedly in perpetually single despair, and go pick up on the coat check boy yourselves.”

“Coat check?” Thomas wrings his hands together and a stricken, forlorn sort of light fills up those ridiculous doe eyes, in a way that actually makes Newt feel a little bad.

Newt has known he was gay since the days the lot of them used to camp out in front of the tiny tube TV in Minho’s parents’ basement with sleeping bags and more flavours of Dorito than human kind would ever realistically require, and Bruce Willis did grunting, sweaty machine-gun chin-ups in an elevator shaft. He’d almost forgotten what it must be like for Tommy, figuring all of this out for himself.

“No. Minho’s been helping me—"

  
But that’s just it. Thomas really needs to do this for _himself_.

“Tommy, you’ve got _gel_ in your hair. Whatever else he’s done to you, don’t let him fool you that it qualifies as helping anything.”

It comes out a little more bitter than Newt had meant it, maybe. But Minho is muttering something smart-alecky about ‘gratitude’ from over by the counter, and Thomas is already bulldozing clumsily ahead with his usual level of eloquence as if Newt hadn’t spoken at all.

“He’s been helping me try to— to get someone’s attention, but. But not the coat check guy.”

And for the life of him, Newt will never, ever in this millennium or any of the ones to come, figure out why he goes ahead and says what he does next.

“Well Minho’s spoken for the cute bartender so—?”

  
Because he doesn’t _want_ to know who will be the one to push their fingers through that stiff, spiky-gelled hair and send it home all puffy and sex-rumpled and irresistible. He doesn’t want the knowledge of who is going to have the honour of claiming that mouth – that _mouth_ – or the answer to the mystery that has kept him awake on more nights than he might care to admit, of just what sort of sound Thomas likes to make when he’s laid bare, strung out on pleasure and at his most undone.

He doesn’t, he doesn’t, he does _not_. No more than he needs the sudden invasive and unwelcome thought of Thomas, in the very booth they occupy apparently every Friday night now, leaned backward and laughing. The buxom shooter girl Newt could never possibly compete with – the redheaded one he has seen Thomas follow with his eyes – straddling his lap, his dextrous hands tangling passionately in her long, soft-looking hair to draw her in. Or maybe with the decidedly hot, slightly-Taye-Diggs-looking bouncer. Pushed up against the ugly tile of the mens’ room wall, flushed and gasping into his mouth, the hand on the end of that long, well-muscled arm disappearing into the open zip of those idiotically tight jeans.

It’s just. It’s just something a friend should ask, and Minho is already answering him of course, the bastard.

But then Newt is busy, jamming a hopefully-causal-looking hand into his hair and tugging maybe just a little too hard, as if he could pull the unwanted images out by the roots. Inwardly chanting that he only has to suffer these two, utterly _in_sufferable, twits for another few minutes before they’ll take off on whatever inane adventures they have planned for the night and leave him in tragic, pathetic peace with the lone bottle of gin in his cabinet and his canned, corner shop tonic. (And his collection of pornography that all looks much too much like the self-same scenarios he’s now desperately trying to flush out of his mind before the images get all messy and tangled irrevocably together in his subconscious for all eternity and, and— And maybe he’ll just spend the night crying into his tea cup like a lonely old octogenarian widow instead.)

So it takes a second or so to process what Minho just actually said.

“It’s you, dumbass.”

A beat, hanging suspended in the air, and Newt can feel the purely habitual exasperation written all over his face change to something else, as he turns to give him his reply.

“…Unbelievable.”

Because there is at least a second or two that Newt actually doesn’t at all believe it, looking back and forth between the pair of them.

Minho is putting yet another inexplicably obtained grape that might as well be popcorn at this point, into his mouth with that still, stone-faced look of observation he adopts whenever he’s the quickest one in the room and everybody else is just managing to catch up. Thomas is still stood quietly by the door, hands that had been picking nervously at each other only moments ago falling aside as he levels his shoulders, raising his chin in that way that says every last stupid little thing is a challenge when you’re Tommy, and they are, each and every one, worth accepting.

And, if the looks flying madly between the three of them now are anything to go by, his latest challenge is, and has been, Newt.

  
“And _this_ was your plan??” Newt asks them, still a little incredulous that even these two would resort to this absolutely moronic a level of ploy. “It’s all been deliberate, then, the unnecessary gay makeovers...”

  
“Uh,” Minho mumbles around what remains of his mouthful of grape, “excuse you, those are my clothes. It’s obviously an unnecessary _pan_ makeov—”

But Newt has already stepped past him, apparently, still trying to process while his feet move him forward across the room, grasping at the air, gesturing wildly at the sight of Thomas by the door in all his hair-gelled, plunging-necklined splendour, to express just how, just _how_…

“Oh whoa,” Thomas interjects, grin just starting to twist at the corner of his lip and dimple his left cheek. “I only signed up for a bi-curi—“

And it’s possible that whatever Newt’s face is doing, might just be looking the slightest touch – well, he wishes the best word weren’t most likely _unhinged_ – because Thomas cuts his own quip short, backing up about a step-and-a-half’s worth before his back comes up against the wall next to the door.

“The increasingly tight T-shirts,” Newt continues, absolutely just explaining himself, and not at all ‘ranting’ or losing any and all sense of perspective on the situation facing him as he comes forward, Thomas seeming to shrink back an inch or two even though there is nowhere left for him to go. “The… the _games_ with your mouth.”

“The _what_ with my h— Oh. That.” Thomas’ shoulders climbing up the wall behind him in the direction of his ears might play slightly sheepish, but the way the soft mischievous light in his eyes goes sort of dancing and merry gives him dead away. “Yeah. That one might have been my idea.”

Newt has never simultaneously wanted to kiss a person and to kill them so desperately much in his entire life. 

  
Which is saying a hell of a lot considering the person in question.

His hand comes out, curling into a fist in the cloth of Thomas’ shirt, somewhere down low around the midsection – and not up by his collar – still not entirely sure at this point kissing will win out.

The fabric is softer than expected, warm from lying so close against Thomas’ skin. And it stretches, giving unsatisfyingly as Newt gives it an indicative twist. “_Ridiculous_.”

  
Thomas swallows. His tongue darts nervously out to wet his lips and – _damn_ him – the next bit just comes out of Newt in a whisper: “I’ve always liked you just the way you are.”

Minho’s “hey, don’t mind me” is barely a distant echo at the edges of Newt’s radar – and he really doesn’t much, thank you – not with Thomas’ hand coming up for Newt’s shirt too, just the thumb and forefinger pinching closed into the cotton in the centre of his chest.

Thomas doesn’t pull, not exactly. But his hand settling its weight is heavy with all sorts of suggestions, and those eyes are glowing now with something alert and knife-edged, that looks a hell of a lot like _hope_. And when Newt leans in, Thomas tips eagerly up to meet him and

this.

It is. _Everything_. Absolutely everything Newt could have imagined – and has done, in fact, too many times to count. And this is worlds better than any of them.

Thomas’ mouth is warm, his lips soft and responding. His hand floats tentatively up to brush Newt’s jaw like he could take this, hold it cradled in his palm for the keeping, but for the fear that in reaching out, this golden, soft-edged moment between them could vanish between his fingertips like smoke.

So Newt presses closer, warmer. And something starts to unfold down low inside of him, spreading out and blooming too wide, too sweet and open, like flowers in the latest end days of summer; pink and scarlet petals dropping even as they face the sun. A slow, soft answer to that nightly mystery, as Thomas hums a dulcet, happy little ‘mmm’ into the end of their kiss.

Newt might be smiling, just a little, when they come back to themselves enough to let their eyes meet. Maybe he won’t kill him, not just yet.

“Does this mean we’re forgiven?” Thomas asks, voice whiskey-warm and kiss-roughened, and close-up soft.

_Maybe_.

“Not bloody likely.” Newt tears his gaze away from the newness of the tiny flecks of gold you can pick out in Tommy’s irises if you’re lucky enough to get this close, to swing a look back over his shoulder for Minho.

“He’s gone,” Thomas says, nuzzling forward so that the words land against his temple. “He said he’d just show himself out. I don’t think you really heard, though, even though we’re literally right up against the door.” Newt turns back, at the beck and call of those perfect pink, and now, kissable lips, grazing the ends of his hair. “There was a bunch of stuff about being able to read a room, something about naming our firstborn after him…”

“Ruddy coward.”

The sound of Tommy’s soft laughter mingles with his, making up a new one all their own.

“Should we catch up with him?” Thomas murmurs quietly, amber eyes following the path of his own finger tracing a slow, ticklish trail along the edge of Newt’s jaw in a way that doesn’t look like he has any sort of wish or intention to go anywhere that isn’t right here at all.

So Newt leans in for another lingering, molten fudge-sweet dose of him before he answers.

“Oh, you can bet I’ll be catching up with him,” he replies, “…later.” As he files away his new little tidbit of Tommy-trivia for the not-so-distant future. “He’s got _months_ to answer for.”

Because, in addition to those devastating, happy little hum-sounds, it turns out Thomas is also quite skilled with a soft, nearly-inaudible grunt that you can actually feel the vibration of just before you can hear it, if your hand is laid softly over the quiet beat of his heart, and your teeth are at just the right angle, at just the right spot in the curve at the corner of his lip.

“But as for right now, I’ve got weeks’ worth of ideas for much better uses of that mouth to show you.”

Thomas smiles. That dazzling, brightest-scientifically-known-to-Man smile. Just for Newt.

As maybe it has been for quite some time, now. But that particular mystery is an investigation for another time.

For right now, Newt just leans close. And closer still. And the soft, quiet beating of that heart doesn’t stay slow or steady for long.

(And as they stumble their way to the bedroom, not wanting to come apart even for a moment, not when each one is like this – mouths blazing searing paths of discovery over flushed, ready skin; hands, urgent and roving, finding places at once both familiar and entirely new – Newt can hear his phone buzz excitably on the coffee table, with notifications he definitely won’t be checking until much, much later.

**_Minho_** _8:47pm_

_So Thomas. I get that I already called dibs on hot bartender chick but since you’re dating my best friend now I know you’re not going to mind if I lay down a little groundwork with shady coat check dude too right?_

**_Minho_** _8:48pm_

_Also. You’re welcome.)_


End file.
